


you're a heart-shaped box of springs and wire

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Weird Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: Tim blinks. "You--oh, Christ. Are you saying you want to have sex with me?""It seems interesting," Michael says, beaming. "Do you want to try?"Tim sighs. Against his better judgment, a large part of him is goingoh why not. Why not. He's already a dead man walking. Might as well add 'banged a monster' to his checkered resume.
Relationships: Michael/Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 344
Collections: Rusty Kink





	you're a heart-shaped box of springs and wire

**Author's Note:**

> from the rusty_kink prompt here: https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=288868#cmt288868
> 
> this is the most ridiculous thing i have written in quite a while but it was delightful fun. edited b/c i accidentally deleted out the summary bit from the fic itself. oops.

Tim doesn't hear the door creak open.

"Assistant," a bright, staticky voice says, and he sighs, putting down his fork. He's already alone in his flat, listening to angry music, eating a microwaved dinner. Isn't his life pathetic enough without--this?

"What do you want," he asks, flat. "Here to terrorize me again? Give me another field trip in your corridors? Didn't have enough fun last time?" He takes a weary bite of mediocre chicken breast and waits.

"You're _interesting_ , Assistant," Michael says, and Tim chews on his sad chicken and doesn't respond.

Michael drapes itself over Tim's shoulders like a fucked-up sharp blanket, hands like knives crossing above his chest, and hums a tune of nothing in particular into his hair. It is too light and too heavy all at once and it being so close makes the insides of Tim's ears hurt. 

"I want you," Michael continues, one finger digging in just enough to draw blood. "I've seen what you do here in your flat. I want to try that."

Tim blinks. "You--oh, Christ. Are you saying you want to have sex with me?"

"It seems interesting," Michael says, beaming. "Do you want to try?"

Tim sighs. Against his better judgment, a large part of him is going _oh why not_. Why not. He's already a dead man walking. Might as well add 'banged a monster' to his checkered resume.

"Sure," he says, trying not to sound half as tired as he feels. "Let me finish my dinner, and then sure."

One of Michael's long fingers swipes out and grabs a bit of microwaved mashed potato and brings it to its mouth. "It's not very good," it says after a moment of thought, looking down at Tim.

"It's food, and I need that to live," Tim says. He doesn't have much of a defense beyond that. It isn't very good.

"You know," Michael says as it runs a hand down Tim's side, shredding the shirt he's wearing as it goes, "if you wanted more exciting food I could help you."

"I'd rather not feed off the terror of the week, thanks," Tim snorts. "Also, I _liked_ that shirt."

"Sorry," Michael says, but it doesn't sound sorry at all. 

*

Tim finishes his chicken. Michael looms above him the entire time, watching intently as he continues to take unsatisfying bites, and finally he sighs and sits back.

"Okay. So normally what we'd do is move to my room now. And get naked. You can be naked, right?"

Michael has a soft black jumper and jeans with holes worn into the knees--not artfully distressed, just old--and it looks down at them for a long moment, as though it is contemplating the entire concept of clothes and their ability to exist.

"I think so," it offers finally. "You may not want to watch."

"I've probably seen worse," Tim offers. Michael isn't full of worms. That's already a significant improvement from his last run-in with an avatar. Michael shrugs and suddenly is--different. No clothes. No coherent human form below the neck. It's a mess of neon, spiraling patterns. Continuing to look makes Tim feel like he's staring directly into an overly-bright fluorescent light, eyes stinging and flashing color aftereffects when he blinks. 

"Right," Tim says, trying to shake his permanent state of weariness. "Bedroom. Let's."

Halfway to his bedroom he turns and presses himself against Michael, lips against what he assumes is still a face, and Michael makes a strange growling noise and kisses him back. Its tongue is longer than a human tongue should be, and every fraction of contact makes Tim's blood go hot, his head buzz. He moans, pressing his lips harder to Michael's, trying to shove the dizziness aside as his hips press against a form that won't stay stable.

"This is nice," Michael says, entirely calm, and Tim huffs out a breath. He can do _better than this_.

"Right," he says. "What do you want?"

"I want to understand," Michael tells him, one sharp hand stroking down his bare back and leaving hairline cuts behind. "Just like you do. The Eye wants you to have this knowledge."

"Fuck the Eye," Tim growls, pinning Michael harder against the wall. "I don't care about what it wants. Feeding it. Any of that. I never signed up for that."

"Oh, but you did, though," Michael says, delighted, pulling Tim harder against itself, and Tim can't help but push up into the pressure. "And anyway, I don't think the Eye cares about _willing._ "

"No shit," Tim says, and kisses Michael again. It's not good at it. The sensation makes his head swim and he's lost to arousal as Michael's tongue strokes against his own, but objectively, Michael's mouth is clumsy. It nips at Tim's bottom lip and cuts in deep enough to bleed, and Tim yelps, trying desperately to pretend that that doesn't just make him harder. He doesn't want to be into this. Doesn't want to be this kind of person. But here he is.

"Bed," Tim says, sounding more confident than he feels. 

They make it as far as the bed and then Michael is pressing him down into the sheets and then just--stays there, still, making Tim's head swim and his world spin into fractal color. Michael looms over him, looking down with a smile like Tim is a particularly interesting mouse it's caught. But it's not _doing_ anything.

"You should probably move," Tim offers. "Or fuck me, if you're into that. Or something."

"I am not sure I can be “into” things," Michael says, looking thoughtful. “But it could be fun to try. What parts do I need?"

"You just need a part that you can stick in me," Tim sighs. Michael takes a long moment to focus, looking down at the twisting patterns of the sheets around Tim's body, down at itself, back to the sheets. For a moment Tim thinks it's lost the plot entirely and then something in its lower form _shifts_. 

The 'part' Michael arrives at is--probably not workable. It's thin and ...pronged and looks sharp, like it would cut up Tim's insides, and he sighs. 

"Not that."

"This is a part I can stick in you," Michael insists, looking down at it.

"I'm okay with bleeding, but not _there._ Just model it after what I've got."

Michael looks down at Tim's dick, traitorously hard despite how fucking weird all of this is, eyes narrowing. "That's rounder."

"Yes," Tim sighs. "If you don't want to horribly injure me, it should be rounder. And slick would help."

Michael pauses for a moment, looking between the shape it's created and Tim. "Fine," it says, and the twisting shape between its legs rounds out at the tip. Still weirdly two-pronged. Bigger than Tim is really prepared to take. Good enough to make it work, though. 

Tim wraps a hand around it and guides it towards his hole. "Just go slowly, okay?" he asks, as the head of it threatens to press in.

"Slowly?" Michael asks, a facsimile of hips pressing forwards in a sudden movement that shoves the head of its--something into Tim, and Tim huffs out a startled breath.

"Slowly," he repeats. "Please."

It takes at least ten minutes for Michael to sink into him. Ten minutes of awkward pauses and slow, inexorably forward penetration, and Tim shouldn't be half as into this as he is, but something about touching Michael makes his skin crawl in a way that only gets him harder. Probably he's just wired wrong these days. 

Michael forces itself in all the way and then just--stops.

"Uh," Tim says.

"I am inside you, Assistant," Michael tells him, sounding very pleased. It stares at the twisting mess of sheets again for a long moment.

"Yes," Tim says. "Do--um. You know what you're supposed to do now, right?"

"No," Michael says cheerily. "This is what sex is, right?"

Well.

"Sort of," Tim offers. "Uh. Generally you want to--move your hips. In and out." 

"In and out?" Michael asks, sounding fascinated, and it pulls out almost all the way before Tim has to grab its hips, the contact with its bare—skin?--making his fingers buzz. 

“Not all the way. About that far, and then back in.”

Michael shoves forward, deep into Tim's body, and Tim can't hold back the cry he lets out. The buzzing is inside him now, too, and the feeling that skitters across his nerves is so sharp that he feels for a moment like he might pass out. 

"Like that," he chokes. "Just keep doing that."

"Hmm." Michael still sounds skeptical, but iit does it again, and again, the head of the something that is not a dick at all sinking deep enough to make Tim squirm over and over again, and Tim burns with it, rocking back onto the impossible length. It's good. It shouldn't be this good, but something about touching Michael's skin makes his blood sing and so he closes his eyes and gives himself over to it.

"Closing your eyes is a good idea," Michael says, form wavering, the humanity of the cherub face and blond curls blurring out and Tim takes what he's given, fucking himself hard on the length inside him, a hand snaking down his stomach to wrap around his own dick to stroke it frantically.

"Keep going," he says, barely able to form words.

"What happens if I do?" Michael asks, stilling completely and staring down at him, and after a long moment Tim opens his eyes.

"Then I'm going to come. Christ. I thought you'd implied you watched me do this before."

"The person you were with did not do that."

Tim's face goes red. You have _one_ unsuccessful hookup--

"It's supposed to," he manages after a moment. "Just keep moving."

Michael keeps moving. It thrust in hard enough that it knocks the breath out of Tim entirely, slick head moving inside him and then drawing out enough to make him feel the stretch.

He comes with a shout, Michael sunk deep inside him, and Michael makes a curious, questioning noise before Tim feels something cold rush up into himself, Michael holding deep. It makes his insides feel deeply strange in a way he doesn't have the words for, but--

 _Made a monster come_ , he mentally checks off his checklist.

"Was that how it's supposed to work?" Michael asks after a moment, while Tim is still getting his breath back, and against his better judgment Tim grins.

"Basically, yeah."

*

Michael is a cuddler, after. He didn't expect that.

He has five sharp, bloody lines drawn into his bare chest, and as Michael's form settles against him they bleed sluggishly onto the sheets below them.

It's good, though. God help him, it's good.


End file.
